Freddy's Generosity.
"I DECLARE the place is beginning to look quite Christmassy
already," remarked Claude, as he and his cousin strolled homewards
from school one afternoon in the first week of December.
"Yes," Freddy assented; "after all, there's generally something
interesting to be seen in a town. How bright the shops are, lit by
the electric light! Don't hurry, Claude."
Accordingly, though the air was keen with frost and it was bitterly
cold, the two boys lingered, looking into the shop windows, which
were certainly wonderfully fascinating. The streets were thronged
with pedestrians—well-clad, prosperous people, and many of the
poorer classes, who seemed mostly attracted by the contents of the
grocers' windows.
"Look!" whispered Freddy to his companion as they were passing
a confectioner's. He indicated as he spoke the shabby figure of
a little girl, who stood with her face pressed against the
window-pane. "Do you think she can be hungry?" he questioned
dubiously.
"I daresay she is," Claude replied; "she looks very poor, doesn't
she? I wish I had a penny to give her to buy a bun, but I haven't."
"I have. I'll give it to her."
As Freddy spoke, he approached the little girl and touched her
gently on the shoulder'. She turned with a start, and demanded in an
aggressive voice what he wanted.
"I—I thought perhaps you might be hungry," stammered Freddy,
decidedly taken aback by her manner; "are you?"
She regarded him in silence for a minute, then tears welled into
her eyes and slowly coursed down her cheeks as she realised that the
boy's motive in addressing her was a kindly one, but she brushed
them hastily away with the back of her hand, which was covered
with chilblains, and answered in a softened tone: "No, I'm not
hungry; at least, not very—that's no matter; but I was looking
at those sponge cakes; they look so soft, and Bobby—he's my
brother—has such a sore throat, and I was wishing he had one;
I believe he could eat it."
"Look here! Take this," said Freddy, pressing into her hand, not the
penny he had mentioned, but a shilling he had intended spending on
himself; "you can get something nice for your brother with that,
can't you?"
"How good of you!" she cried, flushing with pleasure. "Oh, thank
you, thank you! I will buy some sponge cakes and some grapes—oh,
surely Bobby will be able to eat grapes! But he is so dreadfully
ill!" and she shook her head doubtfully, whilst her eyes filled
with tears again.
"Where do you live?" Claude inquired.
"In Number Five Court, in East Street. Our name is Lambert—there's
only father, and Bobby, and me; mother is dead. Father's been
in hospital; why we're so poor; and now he's well again the frost
has come on, and he can't work."
"Why not?"
"Because masons can't work in frosty weather—father's a mason."
She turned to Freddy, and thanked him again for his shilling
most gratefully; then she went into the confectioner's shop to make
her purchase there, and the boys moved on.
That evening Claude asked his father if he knew anyone called
Lambert, a mason, living in Number Five Court, in East Street.
Dr. Dennis did not, but he listened with interest as Claude
explained about the little girl to whom Freddy had given
the shilling.
"It was very kind of Freddy," he said heartily; "I like to hear
of spontaneous generosity."
The doctor was reclining in an easy-chair by the dining-room fire
enjoying an hour's leisure, whilst Poppy, on a stool at his feet,
was looking over her collection of picture postcards, which had
greatly increased of late, as her uncle had sent her many from the
various places he and his bride had visited during the last
two months, and her mother sat by the table, engaged with some
needlework. Edwin and Freddy had gone upstairs to the schoolroom
to prepare their lessons for the following day; but Claude still
lingered talking to his father.
"Freddy is heaps nicer than he used to be," Poppy remarked. "When he
first came to us he used to want the best of everything for himself,
but now he's always ready to share and share alike."
"Yes, and he gets on much better with the boys at school,"
said Claude; "he doesn't interfere about matters which don't concern
him as he used to. Really, at first Edwin and I were always making
up his quarrels; but now he's quite different."
"How is it he and Edwin are so cool to each other?" Dr. Dennis
inquired. "It is very apparent that they are not on cordial terms."
"No, they're not," Claude admitted. "I can't make out why they
are not, though. I've asked Edwin, and he wouldn't tell; and I've
asked Freddy, and he wouldn't tell either, only looked fit
to cry."
"He was crying last night in the schoolroom," Poppy informed them
gravely; "he was pretending to learn his lessons, but he was crying,
I know he was, though when I asked him what was amiss he wouldn't
answer."
The truth of the matter was that Freddy was extremely unhappy and
dissatisfied with himself. He could not meet the gaze of Edwin's
honest eyes without being overcome with shame and remorse.
His conscience, now thoroughly awake, tortured him continually,
and he told himself that Edwin would never trust him again, for he
was conscious his cousin still suspected him of knowing something
concerning the loss of the doctor's coat. Often he longed to tell
the truth to Edwin, but he could not pluck up sufficient courage
to do so.
Meanwhile, Edwin was very unhappy about his cousin, who, he saw,
had a trouble upon his mind; but he felt he could not seek
his confidence again, for he was quite convinced that Freddy
had told him a lie. Sometimes it occurred to him that Freddy might
be shielding someone whom he knew to have stolen the coat; but then,
who could that someone be? Certainly not either of the servants,
who were both trustworthy young women, and there was no one else
in the house it was possible to suspect.
Claude and Freddy, who generally returned from school together,
kept a look out for the little girl the latter had befriended
as they walked home in the afternoons for the next week or two;
but they did not see her, and they had nearly dismissed her
from their minds when, after more than a fortnight had elapsed,
and they had given up all thoughts of meeting her again, they one
afternoon recognised her shabby figure ahead of them, and hurried
to overtake her.
"I say, how's your brother?" asked Freddy, as he reached her side.
She stopped immediately, her thin face lighting up with a pleased
smile, and rested a big brown paper parcel she was carrying against
a shop window, as she replied, "He's better; but he's not able
to get up yet. Oh, he does so want to thank you for your kindness
to him!" she cried, looking with grateful eyes at Freddy. "I took
him some sponge cakes and grapes that day you gave me the shilling,
and he could eat them. My! I wish you could have seen how he enjoyed
the grapes! Would you—it is not far—would you come to see him just
for a few minutes?"
The boys glanced doubtfully at each other, and hesitated, noting
which the little girl's countenance fell, and she said in a hurt
tone of voice, "Perhaps you're too proud to come? But no, I'm sure
it's not that! It's a poor place, I know, but it's very clean, and
Bobby would so like to see you."
"Oh, we'll go with you, certainly!" Claude exclaimed, touched by
the wistful expression of her face. "You lead the way. What's in
your parcel?" he asked curiously.
"It's—it's blankets," she responded, blushing painfully; "we had
to pawn them when father was out of work, and Bobby was so ill; we
never did such a thing before, but we couldn't starve—it's dreadful
to be hungry. Father's just been to fetch the blankets—I told you
he's at work again now—and he gave them to me at the corner of the
street to carry home, he wouldn't let me go into the pawn-shop.
He's gone to get Bobby's medicine."
Neither Claude nor Freddy made any comment, though they both felt
very sympathetic. The former wished he had asked his mother to visit
the sick boy, he was sure she would have complied with his request,
for she was always ready to extend a helping hand to those
in distress of any kind; and the latter was horrified at the idea
of people being so poor as to be obliged to pawn their bedding
in the depth of winter.
When Number Five Court, East Street, was reached, they followed the
little girl into her home, and into the presence of Bobby—a boy of
about their own age, though he looked older—who was posted up in bed
with a shawl pinned around his shoulders. He turned a pair of dark,
hollow eyes inquiringly upon his visitors, then glanced at
his sister, who ran to him and whispered hurriedly in his ear.
"Oh, I am glad!" he exclaimed, a flush rising to his pale cheeks.
"Which of them was it that gave you that shilling, Lizzie?"
The girl indicated Freddy, who came forward and asked the invalid
how he was, whilst Claude stood in the background looking on.
"I'm better—much better," was the reply to Freddy's inquiry. "I want
to thank you for your kindness—"
"It was nothing," Freddy interposed. He was feeling awkward, for he
had never paid a visit to a sick room in his life before. "I didn't
want the money. I should only have spent it in sweets if I hadn't
given it away. You look very ill still. Are you certain you are
better?"
"Oh, yes! The doctor says so—the parish doctor, you know. I caught
a bad chill by getting drenched to the skin, and letting my clothes
dry on me. I sell papers in the streets in the evenings. Oh, I shall
soon be well now!" he declared hopefully.
"I am sure I hope so," Freddy said with genuine sympathy in his
voice; "you must keep yourself warm, and—"
He paused suddenly, his attention attracted by the outer covering
of the invalid's bed, a large, heavy, man's overcoat, with a big
cape. It was with difficulty that Freddy refrained from uttering
the cry of mingled astonishment and dismay which rose to his lips
as he recognised his Uncle Jo's old coat. The next moment Claude
stepped nearer the bed, and his eyes fell upon the familiar garment
too.